The Question
by thesilentlamb
Summary: How many times has Sarah Jane been asked if she's married? A look into her thoughts over the years with the Doctor(s). Oneshot. Please R&R! **SECOND CHAPTER ADDED**
1. Chapter 1

**I've been catching up with the Sarah Jane Adventures, and my attention was caught by a little exchange between Alan Jackson and Sarah Jane right at the beginning of series one – he asks her if she's ever been married, and she says 'no, never had time'. And that started me wondering, how many times over the years she must have been asked that question. Because let's face it, people are nosy. And I wondered and wondered - and came up with this. Hope you enjoy it, and if you do, please leave a review. **

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_**The Question**_

The first time she was asked The Question, Sarah Jane was rather taken aback. It was two months after Aberdeen (she wouldn't allow herself to think of that day as anything else) and she was perched on an overstuffed armchair in a living room that was decidedly too pink, waiting to interview an elderly lady called Mrs Pickering about her unrivalled collection of garden gnomes. She sat, knees pinned together and elbows at her sides to avoid knocking over any of the knick knacks on the tables either side of her, while her interview subject - who seemed delighted to have a visitor - poured them both some tea. As Mrs Pickering handed her a cup and saucer and a couple of biscuits, she broke her stream of inoffensive chatter to make her inquiry.

"Are you married my dear?"

Sarah shook her head as she sipped at her tea.

"Whyever not?" asked the older woman, "a lovely girl like you? I would have thought the young men would be knocking down your door."

Sarah gaped like a goldfish, attempting to come up with a reply, but to her relief Mrs Pickering kept on chattering, cheerfully answering her own question.

"I expect the right chap hasn't come along yet, not to worry, I'm sure Mr Right won't be long!"

Shutting her mouth with a pop, Sarah hastily steered the conversation away from potential suitors onto garden gnomes, and that was that.

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Sarah Jane hugs her knees to her chest. She is sitting on her back doorstep in Bannerman Road, looking up to the stars and basking in the warm summer evening. Is it not often she will allow herself to wallow in memories but tonight she will indulge herself.

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She remembers it so clearly, the moment she fell; it was not love at first sight, not at all, but it was sudden nonetheless. The Doctor - her _first _Doctor - and she had been travelling together for some months. He had parked the TARDIS in her living room so she could collect a few personal items, and they had been enjoying a mutual joke, the banter between them easy and natural. She had turned as she stepped out of the TARDIS and walked backwards into her flat, and had laughingly reminded him not to go off without her; and he had leaned against the TARDIS with his hands in his pockets, tilted his head and given her that affectionate smile, and she had fallen for him, just like that. And he had _known_, she is sure of that now; whether he had read her mind, or just noticed a subtle change in her expression, she is not sure, but a flicker of _something_ had crossed his face. She had opened her mouth and tried to formulate some words, but he had saved her with a gentle smile and a murmur;

"I'll wait here for you, Sarah."

After that, things had changed in some indefinable way, as though a subtle charge flowed between them. And when it had finally happened, it had been equally sudden. They had faced each over across the console, chests heaving and eyes glowing, alive with the latest escape, and suddenly she had felt the TARDIS wall at her back, his arms around her as he bent to meet her halfway. And then he had stood, taking her with him, an arm at her back and the other under her thighs as he carried her off to her bedroom. There had been no awkwardness afterwards, just a mutual happiness that the other felt the same way. Their companionship had not suffered; rather they had become closer and perhaps more tactile, at least in the privacy of the TARDIS. It had not happened again, but weeks later as he lay dying on UNIT's floor, the tear she had shed was not just for a lost friend.

His next incarnation had been so childishly exuberant she had not known quite how to manage him at first. It had still been there, that inexplicable attraction between them, but he had seemed to ignore it; preferring instead to treat her as a treasured companion but nothing more, in much the same way an eight year old boy might treat his female friends – it was irritating but oddly endearing and she had to admit perfectly in keeping with his juvenile demeanour. And yet it could not be ignored forever; it had been a long time coming but the night they had shared had been so wonderful Sarah could not have put it into words if she tried; the sheer joy of knowing that underneath all the bravado and tomfoolery he still cared for her as she cared for him had been overwhelming.

And then he had had the call from Gallifrey, and he had left her. And as she stood in Croydon-that-was-not-Croydon, and watched the TARDIS disappear, she had been sure of one thing. That no matter what she told UNIT, or her colleagues or Aunt Lavinia, no matter what she told _herself_; she would wait for him. She couldn't possibly do anything else.

She had done her best to return to normal, covering local interest stories on the newspaper, paying bills and buying groceries and sitting on the bus with the other commuters, and then she had found herself in Mrs Pickering's living room being posed with The Question for the first time.

Mrs Pickering had been the first to ask, but she certainly hadn't been the last, and gradually Sarah had become accustomed to the well-meaning enquires and the prying questions. She had a list of excuses tailored to the audience - she hadn't met the right man yet, she was focusing on her career, she didn't _believe _in marriage; she had told a couple of leering young men that she preferred woman (that had shut them up), but she couldn't deny it had become tiresome. As she approached her thirties her colleagues started to set her up on disastrous dates, her males friends made passes at her; but nice as they were she had always known the Harry Sullivans and John Bentons of the world would never, _could_ never, be enough for her.

And then there had come a day shortly after her thirtieth birthday; she had been sitting in a wine bar, reluctant to go home, tapping her pen impatiently against her notepad as she tried to conjure up the extra two hundred words her editor wanted for her latest article. A young man had sat on the stool next her to her and she'd sighed, turning to get rid of him with a cutting remark; but something about his smile disarmed her and instead of giving him the usual rebuff she had found herself accepting his offer of a drink. They had retired to a booth and spent a pleasant enough couple of hours putting the worlds to right, and when he had finally stood to leave, something had made her catch at his hand and offer him a coffee – just a coffee, nothing more – back at her flat. He had hesitated, given their joined hands an odd little look and agreed.

And so he had been the first. He had been kind, and gentle, and _exactly_ what she needed. And when he left the following morning, the first thing she had done was draft her resignation. And when, a few days later, K9 arrived on her doorstep, she had wondered if her one night stand hadn't been such a secret after all.

It wasn't a bad track record, not really; a handful of men in what – over thirty years? It was hardly cause for scandal - and after all, she had needs. Still, Sarah had thought herself lucky they had all been gentlemen, respectful and unassuming, and to a man they had all stayed the night, holding her in their arms until the morning. She had never seen any of them again, and that had suited her perfectly well; in a way it was in keeping with how she'd led her life, a series of moments – always, in a manner of speaking, frozen in time. And in a sense she had been, confined to her own personal timeline instead of travelling in the TARDIS with the whole of time and space at her disposal.

And then Deffry Vale had happened, and suddenly he was there in front of her, younger than he had ever looked, but with a shadow behind his eyes that hadn't been there before. And she had told him he looked incredible, and reproached him for leaving her behind, and he had told her of his losses; and they had gazed at each other with disbelief and affection and a hint of something more, and then Mickey's scream had rent the air and the moment had been broken.

Even now, she cannot quite put into the words the twisting stab of devastation she felt upon meeting Rose.

Later though when it was all over, the Doctor had offered to take her away again; and she hadn't been able to quite believe it was her own voice turning him down. But she knew then that after decades of marking time she had suddenly taken several huge leaping strides forward, and it was time to stop putting everything on hold. Perhaps, she had thought, Rose was what this Doctor needed, this Doctor with the darkness in his eyes, so far removed from what he had once been.

He had walked her to the door, and then he'd asked The Question. And as she'd answered him, punctuating her words with a wistful little smile,

"_There was this one guy; I travelled with him for a while. But he was a tough act…to follow."_

- it occurred to her that it was the first time she'd ever answered with something approaching the truth.

And as she stood, for the second time in her life watching the TARDIS leave without her, she had felt something else beside the loss; a strange sense of contentment.

When he had turned up on her doorstep two days later, she hadn't asked how long it had been for him, nor what he had done with Mickey and Rose; she had simply stood aside and let him in. He had rocked on his heels in her kitchen, hands in his pockets with a slight air of discomfort, while she busied herself making tea (she smiles to herself now at the irony of her welcoming him back into her life with the one thing she would never do for him before). And then she'd felt his hand on her waist and his chest pressed against her back, and in a split second she was spun round and up on her countertop, the Doctor standing between her knees with his hands on her hips and his lips on hers, and it had been _perfect_.

The next morning she had woken and lay curled up on her side, comfortable and content, and watched him. He sat on the edge of her bed, putting on his shoes, buttoning his shirt and tying his tie. Such mundane things even a Timelord could not escape, she mused. He had looked over his shoulder at her and given her a half smile and that peculiar little look, of love and longing and the slightest tinge of regret, and she had registered with sudden clarity that it was the same look every single one of her lovers had given her before they left.

A rush of images had flashed across her mind like a montage from a bad movie; the man in the wine bar, smiling as he sat down; a chap in a dreadful coat rescuing her from an ill-advised fancy dress party; a shorter man dashing across the park with an outstretched umbrella to save her from the sudden downpour. A fellow she had taken to be a member of staff at the stately home she was investigating, and most recently the man in the leather jacket who had sought her out while she nursed a gin and tonic in the corner of a pub after Harry's funeral; who had made her smile in spite of herself with his manic grin and infectious laugh.

"_You've regenerated."_

"_Half a dozen times since we last met."_

And she had _known_. And he had known too, the moment the thought entered her mind his countenance had shown it, just as it had all those years ago as they gazed at each other across her living room. And she had stared at him in utter, utter shock, knowing it was too much to put into words; the love, and the passion, and the gratitude that she felt, that in spite of whatever had stopped him coming back for her (and she knows, now, there must have been a reason), he had somehow still managed to be there for her; and on top of all that the stunning, dawning realisation that for her, there really had only ever been _him_.

She had opened her mouth to speak, and once again he had saved her.

"It doesn't need saying, Sarah," he had said, bending to press a kiss to her forehead. And then he had been gone.

Several months later, her new neighbour Alan had asked The Question, and Sarah had given him one of her stock answers. But somehow it hadn't left the usual distaste as she said it; perhaps, she had thought, it was because for the first time she was no longer lying to _herself_.

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Sarah Jane hugs her knees to her chest. She is sitting on her back doorstep in Bannerman Road, looking up to the stars and basking in the warm summer evening. Is it not often she will allow herself to wallow in memories but tonight she will indulge herself. Today has been so emotional; a rollercoaster she supposes, although she is loathe to use that hackneyed phrase. The pull of sorrow at the possibility that the Doctor might really be dead, and the unadulterated joy of finding he was still alive. The pleasure at meeting Jo – someone who _understood._ The little glow of happiness she'd felt at Jo's flippant remark that had confirmed in some way that she, alone amongst the Doctor's companions, was special.

And suddenly there he is, behind her. He sits down just inside her doorstep, his long legs stretching out onto the paving slabs either side of her; he leans back on his hands and follows her gaze, taking in the night sky and all the glory it has to offer.

"You know," he says, quietly, "without light pollution there are thousands of stars visible with the naked eye. For humans, of course. Thousands and thousands of other suns, just like yours."

"I know" she whispers, and unexpectedly feels her eyes begin to fill.

The Doctor is quicker than she, leaning forward to reach over her shoulder and run his thumb along her cheek.

"A tear, Sarah Jane?" he says, and it's too much. This echo of his younger self, his words of so, so long ago, serves only to open the floodgates, and Sarah Jane crumbles. The Doctor wraps his arms around her waist, and leans his chest against her back, pulling her into himself; and he rocks her, and shushes her, and presses little kisses to her temple and lets her cry herself out. Eventually she collects herself and swipes a hand across her eyes like a child, scrubbing away the sadness, and she turns to look at him. At his impossibly young face, at the old, old eyes that have seen things most humans cannot begin to comprehend, and she gives him a watery smile. And he twinkles back at her, his affection, once so carefully guarded, there for anyone to see.

"Stay with me? Tonight?"

"Of course, my Sarah."

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In future when anyone asks The Question, Sarah Jane answers honestly. The love of her life, she says, is needed elsewhere and cannot be with her. And no-one else will ever come close to capturing her heart. And she ignores their looks of silent pity and of thinly veiled curiosity and she walks away, one eye always on the stars. Because in spite of everything she has now, in spite of Luke, and Sky, and her work protecting the Earth, in spite of everything pulling her irrevocably forward, there is one thing she has never been more sure of.

She is Sarah Jane Smith, and she will wait.

She has always waited.

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**So there you have it. Perhaps a little more angsty than my previous offerings, but now I've started writing Sarah Jane I can't seem to stop!**


	2. Chapter 2

**A couple of people asked for a follow up to this so here is a second chapter. I hope it works!**

**I am working on chapter 6 of my other fic, 'The Stuff of Legends' but it's taking a while. Thanks to everyone who's left reviews and/or are following – you are my inspiration!**

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_**The Question part 2 – The Watcher**_

He is here again, in Bannerman Road. He cannot seem to help himself; he stands in the hallway in Sarah Jane's house and watches her watch the stars.

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He remembers it so clearly, the moment she fell. As he stood, leaning on the TARDIS, in his velvet and ruffles, it had happened; the microsecond of time that had changed everything, falling unexpectedly into the sudden pause in their banter; the way she had looked at him across her living room, the softening in her expression that had given her away. And he had wanted, so _badly_, to close the gap between them and take her in his arms. But in spite of his relative youth he had had some sense back then that he seems to lack now, and he taken charge of the situation with a smile and a murmur.

"I'll wait here for you, Sarah."

In spite of his better intentions he could not ignore the current than ran between them, and when it had happened, he is sure she felt it was sudden; to him it was anything but. He had finally caved in to his longing and desire and almost thrown her against the TARDIS wall, thanking his lucky stars that she had acquiesced and let him carry her off. Ever the gentleman, at least in that incarnation, he had backed off afterwards; giving her space whether she wanted it or not. But their relationship had changed irrevocably and there was no denying the emotion between them. And weeks later, as he lay dying on UNIT's floor he had looked up at the Brigadier and at his Sarah Jane and used his last breath to try and give her some comfort.

His new body had been something of a shock; he felt as skittish as a colt, with a sort of childish ineptitude/awkwardness he had not had to deal with in his previous incarnation. Sarah had found it hard at first, and he had tried not to hurt her; although sometimes he thought his lack of empathy, his seeming ineptitude at anything closer than an arm's length relationship might be for the best. Perhaps it would be better not to get as close to her as his predecessor had. But he simply couldn't help himself when it came to her, his wonderful Sarah Jane. And when he had finally lost control and taken her back to bed, even he with his logical, scientific mind couldn't deny how right it felt.

And then he had had the call from Gallifrey, and he'd had to leave her. And as he stared at the display screen and watched her watch him disappear, he knew he couldn't, _shouldn't_ go back for her.

He had done his best to move on, to think of other things. Leela had been a welcome distraction, Romana even more so; but none of his companions quite filled the gaping hollow that ached deep within him. He never looked back; but he couldn't help watching her. It was harmless enough, surely? To watch and wait on the sidelines, to make sure she was alright? She called out to him in a way no-one else ever had; whether he had somehow managed to unintentionally build a telepathic link with her, he couldn't be sure. But when someone was wrong with Sarah, in some way he knew.

And that was how he came to be sitting next to her in the wine bar, ignoring all his previous resolve; taking the risk of her finding out it was him, just because she looked miserable and he wanted to make it better. And when she'd asked him to come back to her flat, he had hesitated, fighting a mental battle with himself; but he hadn't been able to refuse. That first night with her had been wonderful and all consuming and so very painful. Holding her close while trying to remember to breath normally, positioning himself while she fell asleep in his arms in such a way that she wouldn't feel his double heartbeat; he had felt like such a dreadful fraud.

And yet something had drawn him back, again and again, always hiding from her, knowing she could never find out it was him. Those stolen nights had come far too seldom and he had never been able to completely hide the longing he felt to curl up with her the next morning and just… stay. But he couldn't, _couldn't _give her forever and it wasn't fair to try. After the time war he'd sworn to stay away, but watching Sarah sitting alone and miserably nursing her drink after Harry's funeral had awoken an overwhelming urge to comfort her and he'd broken his own resolve yet again.

He had tortured himself with thoughts of the other men she might take into her bed, of lovers other than him. And he knew it was selfish, that she didn't belong to him; that someone else could make her happy, and _would_ make her happy, and he had always denied himself a second night, knowing that to stay would only lead to heartbreak.

And then there had been Deffry Vale; and there she was, larger than life and still as beautiful as she'd ever been. He'd stumbled over his introduction like an inept schoolboy and he'd wondered if on some level she knew it was him; certainly there had been _something_ in her eyes; the tiniest spark of recognition. As she'd sidled up to him to murmur conspiratorially, he'd felt like he'd burst with pride and affection.

Later that night, they'd faced each other outside the TARDIS. For the first time since that fateful day in Aberdeen they were the Doctor and Sarah again, and the relief at being able to be himself had been palpable; he had let the sorrow through, and knowing him better than anybody ever had, she had seen it instantly. They had gazed at each other with disbelief and affection and hint of something more, and then Mickey's scream had rent the air and the moment had been broken.

He had seen the look on her face upon first meeting Rose, and he had wanted to shout from the rooftops that it was not what it seemed; that Rose was wonderful and fun and awe-inspiringly brave, but that she was not his _Sarah_.

Later, when he'd asked Sarah to join them again and she'd turned him down, he had wondered if Rose was the reason why. He had walked her to the door, and he had finally asked her the question he'd wanted to ask for years; had there been anyone special? His hearts had swelled and broken all at once at her poignant answer and wistful little smile.

"_There was this one guy; I travelled with him for a while. But he was a tough act…to follow."_

He didn't want to say goodbye. He _never_ wanted to say goodbye. For her, only her, he had done it. But he hadn't been able to help himself sweeping her up in his arms, pressing her close, as he always did when he left; always knowing that it might be the last time. On this occasion he had for once been allowed to revel in the fact that she wasn't oblivious, that her embrace really was meant for him.

He knew he ought to have been happy for her, that she was staying behind because she _wanted_ to this time, not because of the interference of the Timelords. But he could not quite rationalise the emptiness he felt at leaving her again, seeing her face on the display screen as she watched him disappear from her life for the second time. And for a second time, he had left her K9, his own way of gifting her a piece of himself, of saying 'don't forget me'.

A part of him had welcomed the distraction of Mickey joining them although he knows Rose had not been happy about it.

And then Reinette had woken emotions in him he had thought long buried. Rose had awoken the love and the kindness he felt had deserted him to some extent. But Reinette had lit the touch paper of passion, something he so rarely felt, and even more rarely indulged. And as he watched her coffin proceeding slowly away from his vantage point in the upper window, he had made his decision.

Standing on Sarah's doorstep had been surprisingly nerve-wracking. Without the mask of anonymity he felt suddenly vulnerable and rather like a young boy again. When Sarah had opened the door, he thanked the stars that she let him in without preamble; he hadn't had anything to say – there was so much he _couldn't_ say – but she hadn't expected conversation and he was eternally grateful.

He chuckles at the irony of her making him tea; after all those times she'd refused, on this occasion he hadn't even had to ask. And without even thinking about it he had taken a step into her space, his palms finding her waist and his chest pressing against her back. She had frozen, her hands releasing the cups she had been about to lift; and he had turned her round to face him, picking her up and placing her on the countertop, feeling the heat of her skin through her shirt and pressing his lips to hers, and it had been _perfect._

In the morning, he had eased himself out of bed and started to dress. She had stirred behind him and he'd turned to face her, his face betraying everything he felt at the inevitable separation. And something had changed in her expression; her mouth had fallen open in genuine shock, and he had known that she had finally seen through him. With that one lock of their gazes he had given himself away.

She had struggled to find the words and once again he had saved her.

"It doesn't need saying, Sarah," he had said, bending to press a kiss to her forehead. And then he had left.

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Losing Rose had hurt him deeply; being able to leave his half human doppelganger with her had been the least he could do. He wishes he could've done something similar for Sarah all those years ago, but subconsciously he knows Sarah wouldn't have wanted him to. That's the difference, he realises now; so many of his human companions have been in love with the _idea_ of him; have wanted a version of him to keep forever. Sarah will never be content with that. She wants _him, _for _himself_, even with all the sacrifice that brings.

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Today has been hard for her. He knows that she did not really believe he was dead, but there was a sliver of doubt that manifested itself into a tight ball of sorrow deep down inside her. He knows this because he saw the moment it uncurled and flew away, as he took over Clyde's body and met her eyes for the first time with this face. And he knows this because there is no other reason she would be wallowing as she is, staring up at the stars and indulging in memories of long ago. He doesn't need to read her mind, he can follow her thought process clearly enough without; he knows her so well. He moves towards her, sitting down behind her and stretching his legs out into the garden, either side of her narrow hips. She knows he is there, but won't acknowledge him just yet. Still, as he leans back on his hands and looks up at the night sky, so muted by the city lights and yet still so glorious, he feels the need to say something.

"You know," he says, quietly, "without light pollution there are thousands of stars visible with the naked eye. For humans, of course. Thousands and thousands of other suns, just like yours."

"I know" she whispers, and he hears the catch in her breath as her eyes start to fill. She moves her hand but he is quicker than she, leaning forward to wipe his thumb across her cheek.

"A tear, Sarah Jane?" he murmurs, and he feels her crumble, dissolving into herself even as he wraps his arms around her, pulling her into his body and doing his best to comfort her, rocking and shushing and pressing kisses to her temple as though somehow that will fix the damage he has caused over the years, the hurt and the loneliness; as though he can somehow reverse the fact that he has ruined her for anyone else.

And then she turns to face him, with a watery smile, and he twinkles back at her, his affection, once so carefully guarded, there for anyone to see.

"Stay with me? Tonight?"

It is the first time she's ever just come out and asked. He can't possibly refuse.

"Of course, my Sarah."

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As they go about their lives, the Doctor finally realises something; that while no else might ever live up to him in her eyes, she wouldn't have it any other way.

He is the Doctor and she is his Sarah Jane. Always.


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